Smoke （Bayou Kings MC）
"You scared of me?" he asks.
"No," I answer immediately, surprising myself with how true it is.
His hand, so big it wraps completely around my wrist, slides up my arm. His calloused palm drags across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Good."
He ducks his head and his mouth finds mine, the kiss is gentle at first, exploring. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and something uniquely him. I melt into it, my free hand coming up to grip his bicep.
The borrowed clothes fall forgotten to the floor.
His kisses deepen, growing hungrier, more insistent. My head spins with it. No one's ever kissed me like they're drowning and I'm the last breath of air.
"Been wanting to do this all day," he growls against my lips.
I sway toward him, drawn by some invisible force. His arms wrap around me, one hand splayed against my lower back, the other tangling in my wet hair. The towel and his jeans are the only things between us.
"Tell me to stop," he says, echoing his words from last night, his voice rough with need.
But I don't want him to stop. For the first time in forever, I feel alive. Wanted. Safe.
"Don't stop," I whisper.
Something flashes in his eyes, primal and possessive. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me a few steps to the bed. The towel comes loose, falling away, and I'm naked beneath him as he lowers me to the mattress.
Looming above me, his eyes traveling over my body with raw hunger. I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, all I feel is powerful. I did this to him. Made this mountain of a man look at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
His hand traces the curve of my hip, up to my waist, stopping just below my breast. "You're beautiful," he says, voice thick.
I want to look away, to hide the bruises I know are visible, but I force myself to hold his gaze. "Even with these?" I gesture to the marks on my skin.
Smoke's expression darkens. His fingertips ghost over the bruise on my ribs, the ones at my throat, his touch light so it doesn't hurt. "These aren't you," he says firmly. "These are what was done to you."
He lowers his head, and I gasp as his lips press against the bruise on my collarbone. "Beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. He continues, kissing each mark, each scar, treating them with a reverence that makes my eyes sting.
No one has ever touched me like this. Like I'm precious. Like I matter.
His mouth travels lower, across my stomach, down to my hip bone, leaving fire in its wake. My hands find his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath his skin. I can't get enough of touching him.
"Take your jeans off."
His lips curve against my skin. "I like you bossy."
He stands and shucks his jeans, along with his boxer briefs. He's huge everywhere, his cock standing thick and hard between his legs. I swallow hard, a flutter of nervousness mixing with anticipation.
"We don't have to do anything you don't want," he says, reading my expression. "But fuck, I want you."
In answer, I hold out my hand to him. He takes it, lowering himself back to the bed. His weight presses me into the mattress as his mouth claims mine again.
His hand moves between us, fingers finding me wet and ready. I moan when he strokes me, hips bucking against his hand.
"That's it, baby," he encourages, voice a low rumble against my ear. "Show me how much you like me playing with your pussy."
And I do. I let myself feel everything—his calloused fingers working magic between my legs, his mouth hot on my neck, the weight of him anchoring me to the present.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, adding another finger, stretching me slowly.
I cling to him, nails digging into his back as tension builds low in my belly. His thumb finds the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center, and my world explodes into white flashing light. I cry out, body arching off the bed, and he covers my mouth with his, swallowing the sound.
"That's my girl," he praises as I come down, trembling. "Fucking beautiful."
Before I can catch my breath, he's reaching for his jeans, pulling out his wallet, and extracting a condom. I watch as he rolls it on, his eyes never leaving mine.
He positions himself between my thighs, the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance.
"You sure?" he asks, one last time.
In answer, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him toward me. He pushes forward, entering me inch by incredible inch, stretching me past what I thought possible. There's a burn, a sweet ache that has me gasping.
"Jesus, Timber," he grits out, holding still once he's fully seated. "Your pussy's squeezing me like a vice."
His forehead drops to mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. His eyes, those crystal blue eyes that saw me—really saw me—when no one else did, lock onto mine.
"Mine," he growls, and starts to move.
He sets a rhythm that has me seeing stars, hard and deep but never rough. One hand grips my hip, the other braced beside my head. I wrap my arms around him, holding on as he drives into me over and over.
The pleasure builds again, more intense than before, and I don't recognize the desperate needy sounds coming from my throat.
Smoke answers with groans of his own, telling me in that gravel-rough voice how good I feel, how perfect I am, how much he needs this—needs me.
"Come for me again, baby," he commands, shifting his angle and hitting a spot inside me that makes fireworks explode behind my eyes.
I shatter, his name a chant on my lips as waves of pleasure crash over me. He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buries his face in my neck and groans out his release.
We lay tangled together afterward, sweaty and breathless. He's heavy on top of me, but I don't mind. His weight feels like an anchor, keeping me from floating away.
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